Surfractant Attraction
by neonXsoda
Summary: If there is one thing he loves, it’s Rose Tyler’s hair. It is so perfectly her that he can’t help but think that the strands are little gasps of Rose, pieces of her essence overflowing because someone so big couldn’t possibly fit into a body that small.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. I'd insert some witty comment about that here if I weren't so lazy.

If there is one thing the Doctor loves, it's Rose Tyler's hair. To be perfectly honest, the Doctor loves Rose Tyler in general, but he could never bear to refer to her as a "thing"; she is so alive, so full of vivacity, that to diminish her even nominally to the level of nuts and bolts seems repulsive, a sin. Her hair only seems to accentuate that fact – it is so perfectly _her_ that he can't help but think that the strands are little gasps of Rose, pieces of her essence overflowing because someone so big couldn't possibly fit into a body that small. It fascinates him, the way that her hair latches onto the tiniest sliver of light and reflects it back, turning it into a dazzling, wonderful sparkle. There were times when she'd doze off in the big chair in the console room and he would stop whatever it was that he was doing and just watch her. Her hair would cloud out behind her messily and flicker with the green light of the console, and he would just watch. Just watch those little sparks of himself dance on the golden filaments of Rose.

Her hair was always wondrously soft, as well. The Doctor had felt it more times than he could count – pressed up against his cheek and nose while she threw herself into his arms, draped across his shoulder as she leaned against him, twined through his fingers as he absent-mindedly stroked her hair while he read or after she had a nightmare and called him into her room, sobbing. Its texture was silky and smooth, light and airy and soft and the most comforting thing he had ever experienced. It was ephemeral yet real, and he savored it like a child clinging to a security blanket.

And yet the thing he loved most, the bit that got him every time, was the smell. Rose always used the same shampoo – a cheap, generic brand that was easy to find no matter where they were in time or space. It smelled like coconut and ammonium lauryl sulfate, and whenever the Doctor hugged Rose, her hair would press against his nose and he would smell it. Coconut and that little metallic tang became synonymous with her in his mind, the smell that always accompanied every single memory locked away in the back of his head that made him think that maybe, maybe, his life wasn't so bad. It was the smell that came when she stomped into the kitchen, wearing a bathrobe and dripping wet, complaining that she had a sudden craving for caramel corn and that they needed to stop on earth or else things would get very hormonal, very fast. It was the smell that accompanied yay-we're-not-dead hugs and I'm-so-glad-I-met-you hugs and hugs for the sake of being close. It was the smell of comfort and pain and want and love. It was the smell of home.

After they were parted, the Doctor couldn't bear the aroma of coconuts anymore. Tropical islands and exotic deserts were strictly avoided, because just _seeing_ a coconut reminded him of her, and smelling one only made him notice that the ammonium lauryl sulfate was missing, which made it all wrong. One day Donna managed to sneak one on board and decided to make a coconut smoothie while the Doctor was repairing a blown circuit. Lying on his back under the console, he smelled the coconut and the metallic essence of the blender and his hearts skipped a beat. He dashed into the kitchen and, seeing nothing more than a familiar red head smiling over a kitchen appliance, he yelled at her for five solid minutes and then collapsed in his room, tears pouring down his face.

It was silly, but one of the things he worried most about during those dark stretches of time when he allowed himself to mourn was the smell of Rose's hair. He knew that she was living, because, parallel universe or no, he would _know_ if she wasn't, and he knew that she was living a brilliant life, because she was Rose Tyler, and the thought of her doing anything else was inconceivable. But the little details worried him. Little details like the brand of shampoo she used and whether or not they sold it in Pete's world. He couldn't help but wonder if she still smelled like the Rose he knew, if the aroma he so identified with her was still there. What if, in her new life, she smelled like strawberries? What if she had a boyfriend who, when they were together, was enveloped in kiwis or vanilla or something else sufficiently Not Rose? He knew it was nonsensical, but the idea scared him to death. That aroma was so much a part of her that to take it away seemed like taking away who she was to him. Of course she would still be Rose – wonderful, funny, brilliant, fantastic Rose – but she wouldn't be Rose exactly as _he_ remembered her. And, because he was a selfish bastard, he couldn't bear the thought.

********

After more time than the Doctor cares to remember, he stands in the console room and stares down at Rose's wide, vulnerable eyes. His hearts are hammering faster and louder than he can ever remember and she must be able to hear them and he wishes that they would stop because its getting embarrassing. He greedily soaks in her appearance and catalogues the differences – her hair is longer now, sleeker, with properly bleached roots. She lost weight, hollowing out her cheekbones. Her nails are shorter, yet smoother. She's wearing a new, darker jacket (he almost smiles at this, wondering if she felt a need to shed her skin just as he had). And yet, through it all, she is still undeniably Rose, the same Rose he had lost and still loves and keeps stored away somewhere deep within himself. She is here at last and oh, God, it's Rose. _Rose Rose Rose Rose Rose Rose Rose Rose – _

"You're still you."

He smiles at this, because he was just thinking the exact same thing.

"I'm still me."

And then they're in each other's arms, neither of them knowing who took the first step and neither of them caring. He presses his face into her hair and coconut and ammonium lauryl sulfate wafts into his nose and he almost cries out in joy and pain and pure emotion. _Rose Rose Rose Rose Rose Rose Rose Rose Rose. His Rose. _He takes huge gasps, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst, feeling her warmth in his arms and her pressure against his skin and her smell assaulting his senses. He takes such large breaths that he's sure his lungs are going to explode, that they're expanding far too much and that they're going to fracture a rib, and he doesn't care because Rose is here and she's just the same as ever and his hearts are being simultaneously squeezed and expanded and she's really, truly, here, and maybe, maybe, his life isn't so bad.

Ecstasy.

Comfort.

Hurt.

Home.

_Rose._


End file.
